This is a bad religion
worshiping you
and everything
we once had
I still can’t shake you
I feel incredibly
vulnerable
I still fantasize
about you
bringing me back to the pier
and taking full advantage
of me
out in the open
To have me naked
Unclothed body
Uncovered heart
I’m all yours
I think
I will always
be yours
I can never
make you
love
me

(I took the liberty to be creative and liven up a dull space with words and my drawings. You can find this in the upstairs women restroom- second stall- in the Church Fine Arts building located on the University of Nevada, Reno campus.)

I now sit here, 3000 miles away listening to Bob Dylan covers, thinking about the last night we spoke. I still can’t believe that you answered your phone and that I got to hear your voice one last time. I didn’t think that would happen. Sometimes I like to imagine that when I move back to the city for graduate school next summer, we’ll run into each other in the streets on Brooklyn. I will be a little bit thinner with longer hair and wearing a new pair of glasses. You would be wearing those black flip flops and your teeth would still be crooked. I’d double take and give a three-second silent prayer for the courage to talk to you and hope that you didn’t hate me for a reason I knew nothing about. We’d exchange hugs and kisses on the cheek and ask each other how about our lives. You’d be surprised that I found my way back into New York before I apologize for acting crazy and losing touch. We would want to kiss each other like we once passionately did- you push me up against the wall and graze your fingertips against the softness of my cheek. I’d stare into your kaleidoscope eyes and tell you every good feeling about that I had bottled up inside me since the day I left you.

But I know that will never happen. I’m building my life here without your presence now.

“You think fairy tales are only for girls? Here’s a hint – ask yourself who wrote them. I assure you, it wasn’t just the women. It’s the great male fantasy – all it takes is one dance to know that she’s the one. All it takes is the sound of her song from the tower or a look at her sleeping face. And right away you know – this is the girl in your head, sleeping or dancing or singing in front of you. Yes, girls want their princes, but boys want their princesses just as much. And they don’t want a very long courtship. They want to know immediately. ”
– David Levithan and Rachel Cohn

Last night, I wondered “Why are there no fairy tales with the prince being rescued?” Today, I found the answer.

I’m really sorry for the text message I sent you last night. I was at the bar with some friends, getting drunk and of course, thinking about you. I’m utterly embarrassed for doing that- texting you, not about thinking about you and I do apologize; not only for that but the previous ones I sent you. I’ve been really foolish, especially over these last few months, and I hope that you just think that I’m a crazy person who won’t leave you alone.

I really don’t know why I’m writing this. To apologize again. To reach out. Maybe it’s just me trying to finally move on (I do hope you’re seeing someone wonderful and delete my text messages right upon arrival). I meet men who have your attributes (those lips and eyes) or do other little things (like talking about Hemingway and Stein with my roommates) and I simply think about you. All our fun times and talks. Perhaps I’m just living in the past, still. I know that we ended a long time ago but I did wish- and still do- the absolute best for you.

I deleted your phone number from my cell so you will receive no more mental texts or calls from me (this goes for emails as well). I’m sure you’re busy with your friends and school since it’s starting back up again soon. I do sincerely hope that you’re happy and loving life.

They say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. It’s in the sight of the person who is looking.
But I’m the only one sneaking peeks.
I spent an hour in the bathroom this morning.
Shaving my legs.
Plucking my brows.
Straightening hair.
Exfoliating off dead skin.
Covering up lines and freckles.
Rubbing on shadow.
Lining my lids.
Putting mascara on my short lashes.
Brightening cheeks with blush.
Trying to plump up my top lip.
Why? Who for? Myself? Its worth? Some unknown man? His affections?
What is the standard of beauty? I miss new city living where I’m considered an exotic Venus not a small western town plain jane. Here, they want the blondes with sparkling baby blues and leggy limbs. With my frizzy hair and dark skin, I will never fit into that mass.
I miss getting hit on by random strangers. Men in their tight denim. Blokes on the corner block. They smoke their cigarettes and look me up and down. Whistle. Call me, PRETTY. A STUNNER.
I’m shallow. But they made that way. Those men. These women.
I know that I will never be a size two but do they? They push me into buying expensive products and teeny garments, insisting those things will make me feel better about myself; but do they? The creams. The fabrics.
I’m a product of damage. Hurtful words of on-lookers and my mother. My own mutilation wounds. Doubts that always collect in my brain.
How can I fix what they did to me? These bodily ruins?
No self-help book will heal me. Neither will a million hours of psychotherapy, even though I know I’m not crazy.
Even that garbage paste and fake skin- cover up- they to convince me to buy will not suffice.
I guess I’m on my own. I need to fix myself.
I don’t know how but I will.
I need to see the beauty within in order to see the beauty without.
Dress size 12. D cup.
Oily skin. Acne scars.
Fake, chipped teeth. Scratched glasses.
Cellulite. Stretch marks.
Filled with kindness, spunk and an empowering brain.
I’m a knockout.

Kisses to a band of horses
Rough hands against my soft face
Those precious whispered words.
That’s what I deserve but am not getting
Instead, I being fucked from behind with slaps against my cheek and a hand around my throat
I deserve better, I know that
But when nothing else presents itself
No one great pays attention and my loneliness builds
When I’m told ‘no’ or am ignored
I’m willing to see that sign of disrespect as a token of affection and let him pull my hair
Let him get away with the sexual abuse
Have my body in ways he shouldn’t
Chase his car with my tears and confused emotions
I know I deserve better but I’m not getting it so I will work with what I can get